Rain Delay
by singingstarryknights
Summary: Greg and Sara argue over a case. A lot. Number 31 in the Ducks in a Row Series.


Rain Delay

…

Greg and Sara argue over a case.

…

Number 31 in the Ducks in a Row Series

…

"He killed his wife, Greg." Sara sighed, knowing her seemingly sound argument was falling on the deaf ears of her stubborn husband. She crossed her arms over her chest, cocking an eyebrow at him, daring him to disagree. The younger man seated a few feet away squinted at the photos of the blood spatter again, frowning, and shaking his head.

"I don't buy it." Greg sat back in his chair and took in the sight of his wife, unfazed by the impatient look she was throwing him. "The cast off is too high." He gestured in the general direction of the bloody knife, lying haphazardly on the table, neatly sealed in its evidence bag. "The neighbor's prints are on the knife. And he had a serious thing for the decedent. And he's short enough to make that arterial spray at that height."

"Circumstantial! He told us himself he was over there leaning how to cook a homemade dinner for his girlfriend. Prints could be weeks old."

"I suppose the blood on the blade is weeks old, too?" She fixed him with a hard stare, and he cringed, knowing he had crossed the line. Fine. He could be painfully stubborn, too. It was the neighbor. She was wrong. "Look, Sara, I-"

"_No_. You're wrong."

"Just because they didn't have a perfect marriage doesn't mean he's going to slit her throat, Sara."

"She filed police reports four times, domestic abuse, domestic abuse, threatening drunken disorderly conduct, domestic abuse." She tossed the paperwork in his general direction, growing frustrated. "Vernon Buckley, proud owner of a felony, three accounts of domestic abuse, public drunkenness, armed robbery, and assault." She pushed a stray lock of brownish curls out of her eyes. "He used his wife for a punching bag for ten years, Greg."

"Character doesn't dictate evidence, Sara. Sure the guy's an ass, should be locked up for other things, but the forensic evidence isn't there. You can't convict a guy without something tangible, love."

"I _know _that." She frowned, rubbing at her eyes tiredly. "It's just we don't have enough evidence to support the neighbor, either." The accusation in her tone surprised him, and he shot a retort back.

"I'm not speculating!" He stood, snapping on a pair of gloves in a meticulously practiced manner, his attention on the forensic evidence scattered across the table beside them. He reached over, grabbing the bag with the knife, and dropped it in front of his wife. "Murder weapon. With Mr. Harvey's prints." At her set jaw, he rummaged around again, curling his fingers around the dirt sample they had collected from the back door's welcome mat. "Dirt from the mat, where entry had been forced. Matching Mr. Harvey's brother's construction site, and Mr. Harvey's boots." He reached for another bag, but Sara swiveled in her chair and closed the distance between herself and the door, fuming her way down the hallway, and away from him.

That was three days ago.

They hadn't spoken a word to each other since.

Nick began to worry when neither Greg nor Sara would talk to him about their case, or their sudden lack of communication. Sara would just change the subject, turning their conversation on his relationship with Grace, and Greg; Greg would roll his eyes and plead the fifth. They danced around each other gingerly, one behaving seemingly empathetic toward the other. They were each carrying other cases, and for that, Nick was thankful. The Buckley case had fizzled cold, they had moved on to other assignments, but it had wedged a space between them that they just couldn't quite fix. It was childish, but they were stubborn, and Nick was running out of ideas. He was amazed they hadn't killed each other, or suffocated, in the amount of tension oozing out of 27 Harris Street.

Usually their arguments, at least in their marriage, dissipated when Greg broke down and got Sara to laugh, and forget about why she was so angry with him. Usually that process could be witnessed in the time it took to leisurely sip a cup of coffee. This was outside the realm of any normal lover's quarrel, that he was certain. The part of them that had worked the same case was bulldozing the part of them that was husband and wife.

Nick desperately wanted his friends back, instead of the brooding _teenagers_ that were sulking around not speaking to one another. Working a routine B&E with Sara on a slow night, he decided to act. Bully. Charm. Connive. Get to the bottom and fix whatever they were not speaking to each other over.

"What the hell is going on with you and Greg?" Nick snapped a few photos of smashed glass, and glanced at his friend.

"Just a bump." Sara sighed, frowning at the shard of fabric she collected, placing it in a bindle and scribbling the case notes on the outside. "It's fine."

"It's not. You're miserable."

"I'm not miserable. I'm just tired."

"You look like shit."

"Thanks." Sara stashed a blood swab in his kit and threw Nick a sad smile. "I just haven't slept really well." Nick straightened, stealing a glance at her heartbroken expression as he switched the camera lens. So that was it. Greg must be sleeping on the couch. She'd told him, while she was in the hospital after Nora was born, that she couldn't sleep without Greg.

This was ridiculous.

Sara's phone rang shrilly, singing some bad eighties song he recognized as her setting for Greg. She groaned irritably, flipping open the phone and cradling it against her ear.

"Gregory." He cringed when he heard her tone, the dissonance between her cool exterior and her broken heart clashing loudly. The sudden brightness in her voice caught his attention seconds later, however. "Really? _Really_. Huh." Sara stood from her crouched position, and smiled faintly at Nick's questioning look. "Don't start without me. Greg." She paused, rolling her eyes, holding the phone away from her ear as her husband rambled. "Gregory." She shook her head, obviously not able to get a word in, making Nick chuckle. "Fine, but I'm on my way." She started to shut the phone, but paused, his words in her ear softening her features. She dropped her voice to a soft whisper. "I-I love you, too."

Nick broke into a grin, relaxing a bit now that his friends at least had had an amicable conversation. Those three little magic words meant maybe Greg and Sara might fix themselves. He nodded, agreeing with her rambling about a major breakthrough with the Buckley case. She kissed his cheek, and he watched her as she went running to her Denali, pulling out of the tiny parking lot and speeding off out of sight, in the general direction of the lab.

"What's this kid's story?" Greg peered through the observation window, at the gangly seventeen year old slouching into a chair in the interrogation room, glancing around nervously at the uniform at the door. Sofia frowned, tossing her notepad onto the side table, and running a tired hand over his eyes.

"Jason Sinclair, 18. Honors student in Heidi Buckley's advanced American Literature class at Dirado. Walk –in confession. Said he did it, said he'd do it again. School says he was in the running for valedictorian."

"Was?" Greg cocked an eyebrow at her, inviting an explanation.

"Take a look at Mr. Harvard-Early-Admission's transcript." Sofia handed him a folder, and he took it, flipping it open and scanning the contents.

"Whoa. Apparently we don't have quite the aptitude for American Lit as we do for the rest of our course load." Greg listened to Sofia's soft chuckle of agreement.

"A 'C minus' from our victim keeps him out of the valedictorian's seat, he losses his scholarship. Single parent home, two siblings, the only one with brains for Harvard. That scholarship was the only ticket."

"Motive."

"Amen." Sofia shifted, as if trying to decide the best way to go about getting the truth out of the kid in the other room. There was a heavy load riding on this conviction… Mrs. Buckley's popularity at Dirado High had made the case high profile, and it had created a limbo of tension in the lab, with Sara and Greg not on speaking terms.

Greg had a solution, however. He threw her a kindly smile, and slipped around her, into the hall, swinging the door of the interrogation room open, dismissing the rookie officer standing at the door. He smiled at the kid, ran a hand through his disheveled salty curls, and flopped down into the chair beside him, so that Sofia could clearly see his profile through the observation window.

"Hey." Greg nodded a friendly greeting, settling down into the chair, and pulling it up to the table comfortably. Jason eyed him carefully before biting his lip.

"Hey." The timbre of the younger man's voice was slightly higher, and Sofia smiled as it cracked. "So you're going to put me away, then."

"Are you guilty?" Greg leaned back, resting his shin against the edge of the steel table.

"Depends on what you're charging me with."

"Graduating this spring?"

"Yeah."

"College?"

"You already know that."

"Yeah, I do. Harvard, right? My wife went to Harvard." Greg glanced at the file before holding Jason's gaze, wondering how long it was going to take for the anxiety to fall off the kid's shoulders.

"What did she study?" Jason arched an eyebrow, as if challenging Greg, like he was making it up.

"Conceptual Physics."

"And you?"

"Stanford. Chemistry."

"A police officer with a name brand degree in Chemistry? Seems like an extensive, expensive education for a cop." Jason frowned, sweeping his gaze over Greg's laid-back, casual appearance. "You don't look like a cop."

"I'm not." Greg nodded towards the screen print on Jason's tee shirt. "You're a little young to be a Stones fan."

"So are you." Jason cracked a trace of a smile, and Greg saw a trickle of tension leave his frame. "D'you need to call my mom or something?"

"We're just talking. You're not a minor."

"Yeah. I guess not." Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on the cool metal surface of the table. "I didn't want to cause a scene. Police cars, lights. Sirens. My mother, she would be ashamed of that. She worked hard so that I could excel. I was the ticket out of North Vegas. My brains."

"I saw your transcript. Your grades are perfection."

"Everything except American Literature."

"Mrs. Buckley."

"That grade, it was the only thing standing in my way. Mrs. Buckley's class, it was hard. I worked hard. Every test I took, every 'A' I brought home, that was one step closer to a better life." Jason paused, considering the older man seated beside him. "I write stories. I'm going to be a writer. A bad mark in American Literature is as good as a suspension. Expulsion. It's failure."

"How 'bout you tell me one, then, for starters."

On the other side of the observation glass, Sara had gotten to the lab just in time to watch her husband diffuse the defenses of the kid sitting beside him, and, with a few well-placed conversational inquiries, turned the interrogation room into a sort of secular confessional; on one side of the glass, Jason Sinclair became an open book, with Greg hanging on every word with an investigator's ear. On the side where the mirror became a window, Sara and Sofia were frantically checking for forensic consistencies with Jason's story.

Hours later, Greg Sanders watched from his seat in the interrogation room as the rookie uniform read Jason Sinclair his rights, fastening handcuffs around his wrists, and lead him away from Greg and into Holding. Greg ran a hand through his wavy curls as Jason disappeared around the corner, looking up at the sound of his wife slipping quietly in.

"Hey." Her tone was soft; he could almost hear the apology in it. In their twenty-one years of marriage, he had won four arguments, had heard her sound like that four times. He leaned back in his chair, and offered her a weary smile.

"Hey." She sat beside him quietly, and he wrapped his fingers loosely around hers on the sterile table. "Are we talking yet?" His words were just as soft as hers, barely audible, but he reached over and switched off the microphone anyway.

"I'd like that." She let her lip curl into a smile, and he returned it, squeezing her fingers gently. She hesitated, and he waited patiently for her to speak. "I'm sorry, Greg."

"It's the job, love. Nothing to be sorry for." He smiled, chuckling as she teared. "You know, your years of sleeping with me may have had a dissolving effect on that cement wall mentality you used to have." He spoke lightly, teasing her, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

He was everything she could have ever listed as a good quality of a husband and a father. He doted on her with a brand of love she had never known existed, loving her and their child unconditionally, above anything else. The dedication he had for their family, however, spilled over into the other love in his life. Science. Greg was a brilliant investigator. Far more emotively intuitive than she would ever be.

"You were genius with Sinclair." She had turned his hand over on the table, running her fingertips over the lifelines across his palm.

"I had a gifted mentor." She smirked, acknowledging his kind words, letting him know they didn't fall on deaf ears.

"I haven't been a very good mentor these past few days."

"I wasn't exactly a model student." They sat in the interrogation room for several minutes in silence, Greg tightening his grip on Sara's hand, thankful for the return of contact. The last three days had wreaked havoc on him.

"Greg?"

"Mmhmm." He raised his gaze to meet hers, his features softening as he watched her thought process play out in her eyes.

"How is your neck?" He threw her a grin, laying a hand along the stiff muscles just above his back.

"Stiff."

"Maybe, maybe you could come sleep in the bed again, then." She spoke slowly, and there was a pause, as Sara's proposition hung in the air between them. Finally, Greg spoke.

"Will you be there?"

"I was thinking about it, yeah."

"That sounds nice."

"Greg?"

"Mmhmm."

"Let's go home." She didn't have to suggest it twice; Greg followed her out of the interrogation room, hoping that their elongated argument was coming to an end. He arrived home a few minutes after her, pulling his department-issue Denali into the driveway beside hers.

Inside, he clicked the door shut, and swept his gaze over his wife, standing in the middle of their living room, looking like she had something heavy on her mind. Greg closed the distance between them, and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him, into a tight hug, burying his features in her shoulder, relaxing as her arms slid around his shoulders, returning his embrace.

"Are we done fighting, now?" She nodded against him, and he pulled back, catching her in a kiss that fell just shy of gentlemanly before resting his forehead against hers companionably.

"We can't let the world out there wedge us apart in here."

"I agree." Sara heard a trace of a husky quality in his voice, and she pulled away, suggestive smile playing at the corner of her mouth, leaving her husband standing in the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Greg?"

"Mmhmm."

"Come to bed."

She shed the clothes she wore to work on her way to the bedroom, pulling Greg's tee shirt over his head and distracting him with an evocative kiss, pushing him down onto their bed. He broke into a childish grin as she trapped him, but he flipped her gently, rolling on top of her and splitting his attention between ridding her of her panties and kissing her senseless. She laughed, the stubble on his jaw scratching her softly, and she ran a hand along his shoulders, easing the tension of three days of sleeping on the couch. She squirmed, wanting control, the upper hand, but he stilled her movements with a slow, deliberate, tormenting kiss, pushing her hips into the mattress with dull pressure, causing her to groan into his mouth, making him laugh with a huskier timbre.

"We're too old for this," she mumbled, letting out a gasp as his fingers slipped along her side. His noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement caused a sharp heat in her hips.

"We're never to old for this." Greg broke off their kiss, shifting to leave a trail of affection down her neck, tickling her, making her squirm.

"I propose a rule, Gregory."

"Mmhmm." She felt him vibrate through her, and she shivered, trying to remember what she was talking about.

"No mentioning of work on this mattress. _Jesus_, Greg." She arched into him involuntarily, and he pulled away, propping himself up on his elbows to cock an eyebrow at her.

"No work. Good plan. 'Cept maybe the occasional scientific jargon in the context of foreplay." She laughed out loud, brushing a curl away from his eyes.

"Right."

"Just, me, you, and the rings on our fingers. I love-" The shrill ringing of the phone on the beside table cut Greg off, and he groaned out of frustration, shifting only just to pick up the receiver.

"Sanders."

"Hey Dad." Nora smiled into the receiver as she heard Greg's voice. Sara watched as Greg's demeanor shifted from mischievous lover to kindhearted father; the espresso irises that had darkened as they hit the mattress lightening to his normal chestnut brown.

Nora.

Damn that girl and her timing.

"Hi Rosie. What's up?"

"Not too much. Classes are good. I'm working on this killer painting, it's in the style of Monet, but it's a reproduction of a Michelangelo. Way cool. The brush strokes are so much fun-" Greg sighed inaudibly, realizing that this was one of those times where Nora could probably talk for hours. Not that he didn't love talking to his daughter; but Sara's almost naked body beneath him posed somewhat of a conflict of interest. Not that Sara was much help, either; she kept running her fingers along the small of his back, trying not to laugh.

"Glad you're having a good time." He hoped his words didn't sound strained, and he held the receiver away from him for a second to press a kiss to Sara's lips, hoping that it would placate her until he could get Nora off the phone.

"Uh, Dad?"

"Yes, love."

"Uncle Nick said you and Mom aren't speaking."

"He did, huh."  
"Yeah. He told me to call and mediate, because he couldn't get either of you to talk to him about whatever's going on. You're not thinking about a divorce, are you? Nick said you'd been like this for days. Dad, you and Mom's fights only last twenty minutes."

"It's okay, Rosie. Your mom and I had some disagreements about a case. We're fine."

"Are you sure?" Nora frowned into the receiver, hearing the strain in her father's voice.

"Very sure. We are more than fine. Caught the guy. Made the conviction. Perfectly fine."

"You may want to tell Nick. He's pretty worried about you." Greg sighed, laughing, realizing Nora wasn't going to let up.

"Nora?"

"Mmhmm."

"You know, in baseball, how rain delays hurt the pitcher?" Beneath him, Sara laughed at his terrible metaphor.

"Well, yeah. The older the pitcher the more damage to his timing- oh." Greg laughed as he heard his daughter make sense of the analogy. "Oh, Dad. Gross."

"I love you, Nora."

"Yeah, yeah. I love you too. Hi to Mom. Bye." Nora hung up the phone, tossing the receiver onto her bed, and settling down again to her Art History textbook, shaking off the thought of what was going on at home.

"That was fast for an intervention. I thought your uncle said they weren't speaking." Nora's roommate turned I her chair, shooting the blonde a questionable look. Nora shrugged, trying to chock it up to her parents being overly affectionate in general. God, they were such kids sometimes.

"Yeah, they're definitely done fighting."

Nora wondered vaguely how many of da Vinci's works she could study that did _not_ include nudity.

………

A/N: sorry for the delay… I was MIA June –August due to my summer job, and have been working mainly on original stuff, which has turned really heavy and dark, as well as preparing for the 'teacher test' here in Massachusetts, to gain my licensure. I should have the next installment of 'transitions' up in a few days…and the rest of this series in a few weeks. Thanks for your support, and I hope this didn't disappoint.


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